<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Exit Paperwork by waterofthemoon</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475462">Exit Paperwork</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon'>waterofthemoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bureaucracy, Established Relationship, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Holding Hands, M/M, One Shot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Trauma and recovery, Wings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:40:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475462</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after their trials, Aziraphale gets a letter from Heaven. He then has to deal with some long-held beliefs and other things he's been avoiding, until now.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Promptposal</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Exit Paperwork</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/gifts">LeilaKalomi</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy GO Events server prom and GO anniversary to my lovely and talented prom date, @leilakalomi! She requested "Aziraphale dealing with some post-Apocalypse angst," and I did my very best to oblige with a side of sweetness and Heavenly bureaucracy. ❤ Thanks to the event mods, to chat for their ideas and support, and to @asideofourown for the quick beta turnaround - much appreciated!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's a letter waiting on Aziraphale's desk when they get back to the bookshop.</p><p>They've just had a lovely dinner out, at the Italian place a block away, and Crowley's invited himself in for drinks and conversation. Privately, Aziraphale thinks he'd be happy to let Crowley come in for more than that, but all thoughts of <i>that</i> nature fizzle and die when they get to the back of the shop and he sees the pure white envelope, embossed in gold and glowing faintly with holy purpose, sitting in the middle of his desk.</p><p>Behind him, Aziraphale feels Crowley tense and recoil. Aziraphale, too, must stop breathing for a moment, because he feels the lack of it when he forces himself to take a steadying breath. In, out, in, out.</p><p>"Well, let's just—see what they say, shall we?" Aziraphale knows, he <i>knows</i> it's nothing good—it can't be, not after the dramatic fashion in which he left, but there's still—there's still an <i>obligation</i>, hardwired in the deepest parts of him, to at least hear them out. There's still an instinctive sense of duty to Heaven, despite what they tried to do to the world, despite what they <i>did</i> do to him and Crowley. Foolish of him, really.</p><p>He doesn't turn around to look at Crowley, but he can hear the way Crowley swallows hard, can feel the tentativeness in Crowley's hand coming to rest at the small of his back, grounding him on the earthly plane. "An—Aziraphale, you don't have to do this. I can burn it, I can—whatever you need."</p><p>Not <i>angel</i>, not right now, with this suddenly hanging over them. That only makes Aziraphale more determined to see it through, whatever it is. He pulls away and strides toward the desk.</p><p>It's exit paperwork, direct from Heaven. Aziraphale reads it once through, then twice, then a third time through just to be sure.</p><p>"I've—I've got to sign it," he says to Crowley. "Just here. And then—and then I'll—"</p><p>Crowley growls and takes a step forward. "And then <i>what</i>? Whatever they're doing to you—"</p><p>Aziraphale holds up a hand to quell him, and Crowley falls silent. "It's all right," he says, even though that terrible, innate part of him, the part that was formed out of stardust and breathed into being, tells him that it's not all right, not at all. "If—after I sign, I'll be rid of Upstairs, forever. And they'll have done with me, obviously."</p><p>The forms are very clear. Aziraphale will still be an angel—they can't take that away from him. They don't have the authority. What they can do, however, is separate him from the Host, turn their back on him for all the rest of time and beyond. He'll keep his miracles, but he'll lose any meager standing or influence he still has. Not that there's much left, after the stunt he and Crowley pulled.</p><p>If anything, though, Crowley bristles further. "What exactly do you mean, 'have done with you'? You're not—they <i>can't</i>, can they?"</p><p>He means, <i>they won't do to you what they did to me, will they?</i> If anything, Aziraphale is getting off easy. He should be ashamed for being upset about it.</p><p>"No," Aziraphale says, and explains it to him.</p><p>"Oh," Crowley says when he's finished. He seems to think about this for a moment, then relaxes. "Well, fuck them, then. We don't need any part of that. Good riddance, I say."</p><p>Crowley takes another stride toward him, a grin slowly spreading across his face, and Aziraphale can't help but look at him. He drops the paperwork back on the desk so it won't burn Crowley and forces a matching smile.</p><p>"We're breaking out the good wine tonight," Crowley says. "I mean it, the really good stuff, whatever you've been hoarding. And then tomorrow, I'm taking you out, wherever you like, and I don't care who sees us or what they think."</p><p>Aziraphale hesitates for what is probably a beat too long, but if Crowley notices, he doesn't comment. "Sounds wonderful," he manages to say. "I'll fetch the glasses."</p><p>*</p><p>It's been days, and the paperwork is still sitting on Aziraphale's desk.</p><p>He's not quite sure why he hasn't signed, really. Just have it over and done with: no more reports to head office, no more reprimands, no more sterile white walls and white floors and cold, tight smiles. No more sense that, no matter what he says or does, he's going to somehow be incorrect or substandard. His fault, for being such a poor excuse for an angel.</p><p>He knows that's wrong, too, but it's hard to shake the feeling after over six thousand years.</p><p>But it's just—it's so <i>final</i>. To know that no angel will ever come to his aid again (not that many ever have in the past), to know that he will never, ever see Heaven again. To lose the sense of purpose that came with his assignments, even when he privately disagreed with Heaven's aims.</p><p>He's waiting, too, to see if anyone will come down and <i>demand</i> he sign. But no one comes—not Gabriel, not Sandalphon or Uriel, and certainly not Michael, who witnessed him as Crowley. It should be a relief to not have them here, demanding answers and likely his head along with them, but it feels less like they fear him and more like he's become an afterthought. The exit forms don't even bear an archangel's sigil, just the file clerk's.</p><p>Aziraphale flexes his power, just a little, just testing. Little things: warming up a forgotten cup of cocoa, moving a pen from one side of his desk to the other. Blessing the next human who happens to walk by the shop, and then the next three after that. He shakes out his wings, still hidden on another plane but very real and present. They've promised him that he won't lose these things, but he's reluctant to put his trust in their word—quite understandably, he thinks.</p><p>He thinks he likely should have Fallen a hundred times over, for how much he's questioned and wondered and dreamed inside his own head, for how much he's done to undermine his orders, when he ought to have been trusting in the plans set before him. He should have been struck down after Eden.</p><p>But then, he thinks, he might not have Crowley. Crowley, who he loves beyond reason, who has stuck by him since the beginning. Crowley doesn't know it isn't a done deal, and Aziraphale quite wants to keep it that way.</p><p>The bell chimes at that exact moment, and Crowley saunters through the door of the bookshop. "Morning, angel."</p><p>Hurriedly, Aziraphale files the forms away in the nearest drawer as Crowley winds his way through the shop. "Good morning."</p><p>He doesn't tell Crowley what he was thinking about. It's silly, honestly. Aziraphale's going to sign the forms eventually, and then none of his little worries about it will matter anymore.</p><p>"Are you open today? Or do you fancy a stroll through the park?" Crowley approaches, hands halfway out of his pockets and a crooked smile on his face, and Aziraphale can't tell him that he's hesitating over this—that he can't yet bring himself to choose Crowley above all else, even now.</p><p>He and Crowley have gone out several times since the letter came. Every time, Crowley wants to hold his hand, wants to touch and kiss and laugh together, like Aziraphale isn't betraying him with every returned affection under false pretenses. Crowley thinks everything is lovely, because Aziraphale hasn't <i>told him</i>.</p><p>"I could be persuaded to close early," he says instead. "But I'll have to insist that we stop by that little bakery on the way there, you know—the one we stumbled across last month. I've got a terrible craving for a really good raspberry scone."</p><p>Crowley doesn't tell him that he's deflecting. Crowley doesn't even seem to notice that anything's wrong with him, he's that happy. Aziraphale looks at Crowley's relaxed posture, at his flirtatious expression, and resolves even harder not to bother him with this.</p><p>*</p><p>Of course, that all falls apart once they're actually in the park.</p><p>"Did your side, ah—"</p><p>While struggling to come up with the words, Aziraphale forgets to watch his footing, trips over a tree root, and nearly falls down. Crowley catches him; he always does, when Aziraphale lets him.</p><p>"You've got to be more careful," Crowley chides him, but his tone is fond and soft, and he's brushing invisible dirt off parts of Aziraphale that never came near the ground. "I won't be held responsible if you discorporate yourself by <i>walking</i>, you know."</p><p>Having finished his fussing, Crowley looks Aziraphale over and tsks. "Are you sure you're all right? Come on, let's sit down. What were you saying?"</p><p>Aziraphale very nearly changes the subject. Crowley's limitless curiosity must be contagious, though, and he's so relieved to have Crowley looking at him properly that once they're safely ensconced on the bench—their bench—he starts again.</p><p>"After your trial," Aziraphale says, "after we left." Crowley scowls and hunches in on himself, but he waves a hand to indicate that Aziraphale should continue.</p><p>Aziraphale thinks about grabbing that hand and squeezing as tight as he can. He restrains himself. "You didn't mention anything about them—after. Have they." He grips the bench seat instead, a poor substitute. "Have they contacted you at all?"</p><p>Crowley shrugs. "Haven't heard a thing since," he says. "Truth be told, I think they're still scared of me—I mean, <i>you</i>." He nudges his foot against Aziraphale's, and Aziraphale guiltily presses back. Crowley thinks they're on their own side, and Aziraphale is <i>lying</i> to him. "Why're you asking?"</p><p>"Just—interested," Aziraphale hedges. "Was it…."</p><p>And this is the part that could really make Crowley shut down on him, the part that Aziraphale has no right to ask him, the part that could leave him sitting here alone for the next decade. He forges ahead anyway.</p><p>"Was it—difficult for you?" he asks. "To let go of them? Do you have any regrets?"</p><p>Crowley stills beside him. Heedless of any passing humans, he removes his sunglasses and looks directly into Aziraphale's eyes, blinking once.</p><p>"Not a blessed one, and that's the truth." He gently pries Aziraphale's hand off the bench and holds it between both of his. "Well, I might miss going to the parties. But what we did was worth it. You know that's true; I don't have to tell you that."</p><p>Aziraphale does know. That hasn't stopped him from choking on his words, from faltering every time he picks up the paperwork from Heaven, his sigil burning cold on his finger.</p><p>Still, a decision has to be made, and it seems he's not going to be able to make it alone. He stands up.</p><p>"Crowley," he says. "I think you ought to come back to the bookshop with me."</p><p>*</p><p>"You haven't signed it," Crowley says.</p><p>His face is expressionless; his tone is flat. His sunglasses are back on, and he's tilting his face down, so Aziraphale can't quite see his eyes.</p><p>Aziraphale sucks in a breath, then lets it out in a long exhale. He deserves this. It's not Crowley's fault, it's his. "No, I haven't."</p><p>"Care to tell me why?"</p><p>"It's not that I don't want to sign," Aziraphale says. "I do! I think I do. I want to want to, anyway."</p><p>"Aziraphale," Crowley growls. "Get to the <i>fucking</i> point."</p><p>Crowley is holding himself still, so terribly still, and he won't look up. He must be very hurt, Aziraphale realizes, to lash out like that.</p><p>"It all seems so <i>definitive</i>," Aziraphale says helplessly.</p><p>"We <i>left</i>," Crowley says. He starts pacing; Aziraphale watches as Crowley very nearly takes out his feelings on the nearest pile of books but catches himself just in time. "You said that. Not ten minutes ago, you said that. What difference does a piece of paper make?"</p><p>Aziraphale doesn't have a good response to that. Crowley's right. Even if he never signed the forms, even if he kept Heaven in suspense for another six thousand years, he can't go back.</p><p>"I can't do this for you." Crowley stops in front of Aziraphale, and now Aziraphale can see the frustration barely hidden behind his glasses. "I can't—look, are we worth it? All these years, angel."</p><p>And at that, Aziraphale doesn't even pause to consider the answer. Of course, Crowley is worth it. Of course. Crowley shouldn't even have to ask.</p><p>Instead of answering, Aziraphale picks up the form and glances back up to make sure he has Crowley's attention. He takes a deep breath for luck and courage, ignites his fingertip with cold fire, and signs Heaven's form with his true name. Blue sparks skid off the paper and fizzle in the air.</p><p>Afterward, he doesn't feel any different. It doesn't feel anything like he was expecting—like an important limb was severed, maybe, or like he's forgetting something but can't remember what. It's nothing like that.</p><p>The only thing that happens to him is the slow realization that he and Crowley are truly, completely on their own side. He's not <i>beholden</i> to anyone. He can choose this, wholeheartedly.</p><p>"There," he says, "it's done. We're free. All that's left to do is send it. Shall we do it together?"</p><p>The words come out more rushed and trembling than he intends. The change that comes over Crowley's countenance is miraculous anyway. He pulls off his sunglasses and takes Aziraphale's hands in what seems like a daze.</p><p>"You really want this?" Crowley asks. <i>You really want me?</i> Aziraphale hears.</p><p>"As in, <i>really</i>, Aziraphale. No take backs," Crowley continues. "My poor old heart can't take it. Have a little mercy, honestly."</p><p>Aziraphale interlaces their fingers. "I'm sorry, my dear. I've been very foolish."</p><p>"'S all right," Crowley says. He screws up his face, then reaches out and grips Aziraphale in a hug, so fast that Aziraphale nearly has the wind knocked out of him. "Yeah. Okay. Let's get this over with."</p><p>Crowley lets go, and Aziraphale hands him one side of the letter. He doesn't need a communication circle for this; Crowley shouldn't be around them, anyway. Instead, they breathe on it together, infusing the air with their will, and the letter vanishes in a thin cloud of multicolored smoke.</p><p>When it's done, Aziraphale cups Crowley's chin and kisses him gently, open-mouthed, open-hearted. Crowley responds in kind, gripping Aziraphale's hip like he needs something to keep him from dissipating the same way as the letter.</p><p>"Nnnnngh. Some mercy," Crowley grumps when they pull themselves away, but he presses his lips to Aziraphale's cheek and holds on tight.</p><p>*</p><p>They wind up in Aziraphale's bed shortly after that.</p><p>Aziraphale finds new reasons for gratitude in the slope of Crowley's hip, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he laughs, the hitches in his breath and voice when Aziraphale touches him just <i>there</i>, and <i>there</i>, and, oh, <i>there</i>.</p><p>He does not, he shortly learns, have to deserve Crowley. He doesn't have to prove himself. He never has. They can just <i>be</i> together and love each other, and it will be enough.</p><p>"Angel," Crowley groans. He has his head down on the pillows, his back arched. "Gimme another."</p><p>Aziraphale obliges him by adding another finger to the two already sliding in and out of Crowley's body, but only for a moment, wet and open as he is. "I do believe you can take me now, if you like."</p><p>"You have no <i>idea</i> how much,"  Crowley says as Aziraphale withdraws his fingers and wipes them on a towel he's suddenly very glad to find sitting next to him. "Oh, fuck, now, for fuck's sake."</p><p>Crowley glances over his shoulder to appraise Aziraphale with one golden eye, his eyebrow raised in a get-on-with-it gesture that belies the fine tremors Aziraphale can feel underneath him. Aziraphale wants to lecture him about patience but is, in fact, just as eager. He lines up and presses his cock inside of Crowley, savoring the slow slide of it, the way Crowley flutters and clenches around him.</p><p>"That's so good," Crowley moans. "You're so <i>good</i>."</p><p>“Hardly," Aziraphale says. An unexpected wave of pleasure overtakes him at Crowley's words, even so; he uses the aftershocks of that feeling to power his thrusts into Crowley, who radiates love in return, a seemingly endless feedback loop.</p><p>"No, don't—<i>ah</i>—don't say that. I meant it," Crowley says, and now is not the time for debate and blame, so Aziraphale lets it go. They can talk about it later, if he remembers. "Nnngh—put your hands on me, will you? I want to feel you."</p><p>It is certainly no hardship to touch Crowley's beautiful, soft skin, the texture and geography of which Aziraphale has never mapped in all their history. He begins to do so now, running his hands over Crowley's back and sides as he fucks into him. One of his hands lands in the very center of Crowley's back, at the join of his wings, and presses down. Crowley gives a twist and a yelp before his gorgeous black wings erupt from his back, nearly knocking Aziraphale off balance.</p><p>"Sorry, sorry," Crowley says, but Aziraphale has already recovered enough to resume his thrusting, and he leans down to kiss away any lingering worry in Crowley. His hands go into Crowley's wings, the smooth feathers slipping through his fingers. It gives him an idea, in fact. A little message to anyone who might still be watching.</p><p>In the space between one push in and the next, Aziraphale twists his body's understanding of dimensional space and lets his own wings spring forth. They're still there, white and fluffy and slightly dust-covered but <i>there</i>.</p><p>"<i>Yes</i>, fuck, just like that." Crowley fumbles around behind him until he finds Aziraphale's hand, which he then pulls down to the mattress with him, gripping tight. Aziraphale doesn't mind a bit, not with the way he's both grounded and driven on by their interlocking fingers. "Fuck, fuck me, Aziraphale, come on, please…."</p><p>Their wings give their movements together added lift and strength; they flex and shake gloriously with every one of his slides in and out of Crowley. There are stray feathers on the bed now, his and Crowley's both. Their moans are muffled by the sheets and each other's skin but are no less happy, joyous, grateful.</p><p>Aziraphale's wings are still there, and he is still every bit himself, and he and Crowley are <i>free</i>.</p><p>He comes with that thought on his mind, spilling into Crowley with a long, satisfied sigh and kissing Crowley's wings and shoulder blades, urging him on. "Come for me, please, come on, my darling.…"</p><p>Crowley lets out another unintelligible noise; it only takes that and the briefest grip of Aziraphale's hand on his cock before he's coming, too, gloriously and perfectly undone, all because of Aziraphale.</p><p>"Oh, I fantasized about that," Crowley groans. "Come here." Aziraphale pulls out, and Crowley turns over and enfolds him in a tangle of arms and wings.</p><p>"You did?" Aziraphale can't help but ask.</p><p>"'Course, haven't you seen my art collection?" Crowley says. He leans up and kisses Aziraphale, lush and sweet. When he pulls back, the wonder is plain in his eyes, and Aziraphale resists the urge to preen. "My angel. Only <i>mine</i>. They'll never have you again."</p><p>"Yours," Aziraphale agrees, and he meets Crowley's lips again.</p><p>Eventually, they let their wings vanish back into the hidden plane where they usually reside—the better to hold and stroke and kiss all that lovely bare skin, Aziraphale thinks, and it seems that Crowley quite agrees. They're both aroused again by this point, and all Aziraphale can think about is getting even closer in Crowley's embrace, so after gaining his enthusiastic assent, he slips back inside, where Crowley is still ready and eager for him.</p><p>They make love facing each other this time, filling the room with soft moans of pleasure and the sound of skin on skin, and Aziraphale thinks: <i>yes, it was worth it</i>.</p><p>*</p><p>Nothing much changes for them; this is both surprising and not. The biggest difference, of course, is with Crowley. They're free to show affection openly now, and Crowley's taken to that with wholehearted abandon. To Aziraphale's public outrage and secret pride, they've nearly been kicked out of four restaurants and three playhouses, not including their little tryst in the coat closet at the Ritz, which Crowley swears the staff never found out about.</p><p>The other thing that's new is how utterly <i>light</i> Aziraphale feels, positively buoyant. He doesn't have to worry about where he'll be sent or what he'll be asked to do. He won't have to face a lecture or an audit, so he uses his miracles as he sees fit and doesn't worry about whether anyone else thinks it's a frivolous use of power. He can go and do and be whatever he likes, however he likes.</p><p>He doesn't look over his shoulder or cast nervous glances upward anymore—at least, not as much. This is one of the oldest habits he has and the hardest to break, but he's trying, for him and for Crowley. For their side, and everything that's ahead of them.</p><p>They're sitting on their bench again one sunny afternoon, occasionally talking but mostly just cuddling and enjoying the weather. They have a game going, also: Crowley blesses every person who thinks they're sweet together, while Aziraphale afflicts anyone who's rude to them with a mild, temporary curse. They're even, so far.</p><p>"I'm glad you did it," Crowley says, apropos of nothing. "I'm glad to be rid of them. <i>All</i> of them, Downstairs included."</p><p>"Me, too," Aziraphale says. To trade his newly shaped relationship with Crowley, to trade his freely given protection of the <i>Earth</i> for an existence spent on the outs with Heaven but still at their beck and call? It was never a fair bargain, he sees now, looking around at the flood of humanity in this park alone. He chose the right part of it in the end.</p><p>"I don't think I could have found my way here without you," he adds. "Thank you."</p><p>Crowley shifts on the bench, which Aziraphale feels because his head is resting on Crowley's shoulder and is suddenly dislodged. He sits up in time to catch Crowley's twitchy rearrangement of limbs, a sure sign that he's feeling rather a lot for a public setting. "Yeah, 'course. Same here. All of that."</p><p>Aziraphale reaches out and takes his hand, and Crowley squeezes back, then hauls them both up off the bench.</p><p>"Fancy a walk?" Crowley says. "Think I felt one for your side down this way. Your side of our game, mind you. Might be able to provoke him a little."</p><p>His grin is sharp and wicked. Aziraphale huffs a little for show but is actually quite willing to go, so together they walk down the path, hand in hand.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>